That was all it was. Nothing more.
…
Yeah, right.
Even when weak, this guy never gave him a break. But faced with Chu Xingxiao’s pale complexion, Chi Zhan couldn’t bring himself to scold him. He just stood up quickly and went to wash his hands.
Chu Xingxiao watched Chi Zhan hurry off, chewing slowly on his chocolate. One arm rested behind his head while the other tapped idly against the couch, as he pondered:
Gege doesn’t seem angry. That means… I can push my luck a little further.
Chi Zhan was used to having his fingers licked by kittens or puppies when he visited pet stores. But that sensation had never been like this—this felt like his soul had been gently licked, igniting a slow-burning fire under his skin.
And worst of all, the guy had even come up with a plausible excuse.
Leaving Chi Zhan no room to say no.
Why were all these romance targets so damn difficult to deal with? Even Chu Xingxiao, whom he’d thought would be the easiest, was proving far more complicated than expected.
Chi Zhan let out a long sigh at the mirror.
Life was hard.
Just as he was washing his hands, the door bumped open, and the robot vacuum slid in, its mechanical voice asking:
“Why is Chu Xingxiao here?”
For some reason, facing the system now made Chi Zhan feel a bit guilty—probably because of the recent chaos in his personal life.
“It’s a long story. But right now, he’s sick. It’d be wrong to kick him out, don’t you think?”
“He’s a romance target. Even if you threw him onto the street right now, he wouldn’t die.”
“From a humanitarian standpoint—”
“You’re too soft on them.”
“Any decent person would’ve done the same.” Chi Zhan genuinely couldn’t bring himself to ignore someone waiting outside in the cold all day. “I’m just fulfilling a basic obligation.”
“This will make them develop feelings they shouldn’t have for you,” the system snapped. “This world is already falling apart. There’s no saving it!”
“……”
“All four romance targets’ favorability has increased again. The highest has reached eighty-five. Eighty-five! Do you know what that means? One more push and they’ll fall completely in love with you. The other players will be eliminated. This world will collapse. When that happens, everyone will vanish.”
Hearing the system’s borderline hysterical tone, Chi Zhan oddly felt calmer.
“The plan you gave me didn’t work,” he said flatly. “I’ve already done everything I could. If that still isn’t enough—then what do you expect me to do?”
The system fell silent, seemingly choked by his words.
It was true. Even pretending to have a boyfriend hadn’t worked. The romance targets hadn’t backed off at all. And this was supposed to be the system’s most effective strategy, based on extensive calculations.
Chi Zhan really had done his best—there was no denying that.
“You’re hiding something from me,” Chi Zhan said, catching on to the odd pause. “We agreed on full information sharing. Are you planning to break that agreement unilaterally?”
The system’s desperate attempts to interfere, combined with its evasiveness whenever favorability ratings rose, made Chi Zhan certain something wasn’t right.
There had to be something the system wasn’t telling him.
“I’ve told you everything I’m allowed to. The rest… I don’t have the authority to disclose.”
“I want to see the main system.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ll submit your request. But I can’t guarantee it’ll respond.”
“No matter what happens, I’ll do what I need to do,” Chi Zhan said coldly. “As for what becomes of everything else… I’ll leave that to fate.”
The kettle whistled from the kitchen. Chi Zhan turned away, and the system returned to its role as an ordinary robot vacuum, its glowing red eyes dimming.
Chi Zhan pressed his lips into a tight line. What exactly was the system planning? His gut told him that its intentions might be far more complicated than he’d originally assumed.
Yesterday, while flipping through the NPC Code of Conduct, he’d stumbled upon a buried clause in the endless sea of rules:
In the event that romance targets and NPCs experience emotional collapse, rendering the plot uncontrollable, a reset will be initiated. During this period, the system will automatically back up all memories and storyline data. The game will then undergo a server-wide shutdown and update.
Which meant—if a romance target became uncontrollable, the main system had the right to reset them.
But the system had never once mentioned anything about a reset.
There was another rule about world collapse:
If, after a reset, the same code errors or unresolvable bugs persist, the world will collapse. The server will be permanently shut down and marked as a failed instance, closed to all future players.
So then… could it be that—
This world had already been reset once?
It was a bold and terrifying thought. Chi Zhan wanted to dismiss it, but the more he mulled it over, the more plausible it seemed.
An account preserved for six years. A long-standing couple status with Song Guang. A secretary job he could seamlessly step into from day one…
And yet, something still didn’t sit right.
Chi Zhan shut off the heat, let the water cool a bit, stirred in some honey, then handed the cup to Chu Xingxiao.
“Drink it while it’s warm.”
Chu Xingxiao looked significantly better than before. Maybe he’d just been hungry. Now that he’d eaten something, the wild edge had dulled, and his mood had evened out.
“This morning, it rained nonstop,” Chu Xingxiao finally explained. “The flight got delayed. My phone died. By the time I arrived… the match was already over.”
And then—I saw you holding hands with my cousin.
Chi Zhan, however, assumed the game had already ended by the time Chu Xingxiao arrived and didn’t realize he’d seen them.
“So why didn’t you go home? Why wait here all this time?”
There was no heating in the hallway—only inside the units. Just standing out there for a short while was enough to chill someone to the bone. If Chi Zhan hadn’t come home that night, would Chu Xingxiao have stayed out there until morning?
Chu Xingxiao glanced at him quickly, then muttered, “I thought you’d be back earlier.”
Instead, Chi Zhan had gone to eat hotpot with Qi Song.
Chu Xingxiao had a keen sense of smell. The moment he hugged Chi Zhan, he caught a whiff of hotpot spices—that distinct aroma that clung stubbornly to clothes.
Chi Zhan could only sigh.
Chu Xingxiao really was like a dog. Once the owner was gone, he wouldn’t eat or drink—he’d just wait, obsessively, until they came back.
